A Funeral at Sea
by SpraceJunkie
Summary: Sprace slash full of darker themes, sadness and pain. It didn't start out like that, but oops.


The news came in waves.

When we were selling, in the morning, news of a challenge arrived.

Lunchtime, somebody had won.

Selling again, we heard Spot Conlon had lost. We couldn't believe it.

And then that night, the word came of the real outcome.

Not only had Spot Conlon lost, he had been killed.

I don't know why we didn't hear that sooner. Maybe he didn't die right away. Maybe the news carrier couldn't bear to tell us right away. But it didn't matter.

Spot Conlon was dead. His reign was over. Brooklyn had entered a new era, a new kingship. We couldn't imagine what that meant for us. Spot had been fair. An impartial overseer who left us alone if we left him alone.

A new king might not be so kind.

When a regular boy died, we got rid of his body as soon a possible, as quietly as possible, and with as little fuss as possible. We couldn't afford a burial, so we tossed him in the river and called it a funeral at sea.

But in Brooklyn, when the king died, things worked a little differently.

Spot would be laid out in all his bloody, bruised, fight-tarnished glory on a cot in the lodging house by the docks so all could verify he really was gone. He wouldn't be truly gone for a couple of days.

All of us in Manhattan knew that, but it wasn't our business to go see him. After all, he wasn't our leader. The only affect his death would have on us was the quality of our relationship with them, and Jack was the one who had to deal with that.

That's why I noticed Race's reaction to the news. He was the closest one to Spot of anybody, even his boys. Everybody also knew that.

But when he heard that Spot lost, he stiffened. He looked in the direction of the bridge and looked scared. Maybe that was understandable, considering his friendship with the king-former king.

And the when we heard Spot had died, he stood up and walked out.

He didn't run.

He didn't sneak.

He simply stood up from where he was sitting and walked out.

Race didn't walk anywhere unless he was upset about something or he was with somebody. He left alone.

I was the first one back at the lodging house. The rest of dinner had been quiet, so I left early. Something stopped me before I went into the dorm though. I stopped right before I opened the door and heard a slight noise. Listening, I identified it. Quiet, almost silent crying, and whispered words so soft I couldn't make them out.

Race was in there, crying, whispering to himself.

Race didn't cry, even when he was hurt real bad. He laughed and joked away the pain. I don't think I'd ever seen him shed a single tear.

I quietly walked down a few stairs and tripped back up, swearing loudly. I knew Race, and I knew he wouldn't want me to know he'd been crying. By the time I actually entered the room, I had a bruise on my shin and Race was turned over on his cot, looking like he was sleeping. If I hadn't been specifically listening and watching, I never would have caught the small sniffles and slight shaking of his shoulders.

I was a light sleeper. Any little noise woke me up. That night, I woke up when I heard the shifting of blankets and the squeak of rusty bed springs, and I watched Race climb quietly out of the window with practiced ease, not hitting any squeaky boards on the way out. Clearly he'd done it before without capturing my attention.

I followed him. I stayed in the shadows far behind him, only close enough to see where he was going as he walked towards Brooklyn. When he crossed the bridge, I got nervous. Something was up.

He walked all the way to the dock lodging house. I'd never been there, and it wasn't what I was expecting. It was dirty, run down, not at all intimidating or powerful looking. If I didn't know any better, I would have said it was where the poorest newsies lodged, but I knew that wasn't right. This was the king's room and board. The castle of Brooklyn. And that meant that somewhere inside was the boy who had managed to kill Spot Conlon in a fight, and somewhere else inside was the body of the boy who had once been the most feared kid in New York City.

Race didn't hesitate at all. He swung up and around the fire escape and in through a broken window that he clearly already knew about, and he was inside. I followed again, but slowly, and I didn't go in. I merely watched from outside the broken window pane.

Spot Conlon's body was laid out on a cot. The room he was in was small, a bed against the wall and a door with a lock the only things in it. Spot was on the bed, blood covering him and cuts all over his face. It was obvious he'd been in one heck of a fight, but the position he was in he almost seemed like he was sleeping. Race had his back to the window, bent over the head of the former king. He was whispering again, and this time I could hear him, and see everything he did. He was stroking Spot's hair, touching his face. He was crying, and the tears were dropping onto the bloodied features and cleaning them, letting little streaks of dirty fluid flow down. He never stopped his whispers.

"I loved you, Spot Conlon. I loved you and you loved me and together we were the kings of our own lives. We were going to run, remember? We were saving up and everything. We were going to go out west, like Jack wants to. Buy a farm, all alone. Nobody would know what we really were but us, remember? All alone, out in the middle of nowhere? We had plans, Spotty. And now what? I have to go back to Manhattan and not come back? The new king won't let me sell at the races, will he? Nobody but you would. They didn't let me past when you weren't around, did you know that? I never told you, but I bet you knew. You always knew everything. Why didn't you know enough to keep this from happening? Why didn't you know enough to yield when you would have lived? Even if you weren't the king, if you'd just stayed alive, we could have still run away together. We had so many plans, Spotty. What can I do without that? I don't have night visits to look forward to anymore, or secret meetings under that old bridge or at that stupid old church you like so much. No more visits to your box, seeing your family pictures that you were so proud of. No more you, Spotty. I don't have you anymore, do I? I won't have you again, will I? What will I do, Spotty? What will I do without you, Spotty? I need you. I need to be with you, Spotty."

I had heard enough. I knew now what was up with Race. It wasn't my business. He was lucky that it was me who knew. Any other boy might have spilled a secret like that, any other boy might have been disgusted and angry. Not me, though. Maybe it bothered me a bit, but it was his business not mine. I left him alone, and he never even knew I was there. I walked back home, and fell asleep. I didn't notice until the morning that he hadn't come back.

Nobody knew where he went.

We thought he had just left the city.

I thought maybe he'd stolen the money Spot had saved up and done what they'd planned to do together, but I still didn't say anything.

Brooklyn didn't know where he went. They said they hadn't seen him when we asked, and they always bragged if the soaked somebody.

We found him a week later.

He was in the river.

He'd given himself his own funeral at sea.

 **Oops. I didn't mean to, I swear.**


End file.
